


Cognitions

by LeanMeanSaltineMachine



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Napoleonic Wars, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Happy Ending, M/M, Mystery, more detail when it comes up, not even as graphic as Slaughter episodes but not fluffy when mentioned, tws for culture of imperialsm and what happens in war
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:07:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26369218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeanMeanSaltineMachine/pseuds/LeanMeanSaltineMachine
Summary: One falsely accused soldier and one double-masked lord meet at a ball. What happens next will change the world.Or, at the very least, provide a significant hindrance to one Jonah Magnus.
Relationships: Georgie Barker & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Martin Blackwood, Martin Blackwood & Original Character(s)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 32





	1. We're the Reflection of a Starting Line

**Author's Note:**

> i'm tired of waiting for myself to finish this before posting, it's gonna be like 20k words, so i'm posting this now after editing! there's another longer chapter done as well, but i want to see if i can finish another chapter before posting chapter 2.
> 
> all this to say: there is no update schedule, hope you enjoy what's here so far!
> 
> shout-out to dusk and lia for being ever-encouraging and downright enabling. thank you so much!

The manor looms before him, four windows tall, ostentatiously wide, and the wide doors gape to swallow him whole. Jon gulps and reminds himself: _only_ ** _actual_** _murderers would skip a ball they were invited to. Therefore, the falsely accused must attend._ He glances at Georgie casually to check on her, but she is not so casually checking on him, and as her mask isn’t on yet he can see her forehead is creased in concern. Oops. It’s far too early for that sort of look, he rescinds himself, and holds his arm out for her to take. “Shall we?” he asks gallantly, like the gentleman he is pretending to be for a night per request. It makes her faintly smile, which he counts as a success.

“Before we go in,” Georgie says, or really Marquess Barker, because if anyone hears him refer to her so casually there is going to be more uproar about  _ that _ than if anyone found out he had truly killed Leitner, and, well, he would like to avoid both outcomes really; anyway, Lady Barker says, “Before we go in, we must establish some ground rules.”

“Some ground rules,” Jon repeats.

“Yes,” says Lady Barker. “For one, you are not allowed to skulk about all night, and you are not allowed to make anyone cry.”

“Geor -  _ Lady Barker, _ I have never made anyone  _ cry!” _ Jon exclaims, offended and appalled beyond belief.

“This is a  _ ball, _ Jonathan, people will be looking for reasons to cry, believe you me,” Georgie says, and while this is baffling Jon can hear reason in it and so settles with only a minor sniff. “Furthermore, you must dance. Only once!” she adds when again he ruffles. “But otherwise you will do nothing but be in the corner and glare at Lady Melanie all night, and I can’t watch you all night, Jon.”

“So you need someone to babysit me for at least a period of time, is that right,” Jon huffs, but he doesn’t argue. He’s studying the windows without truly looking. It would be easy enough to duck out of this agreement, actually, to not have to dance at all, or to choose one with touch replaced by quick switching and swooping. He knows those, popular at the bases as they are. “Alright,” he says mildly, “alright.”

Georgie is too polite to look surprised, but there is a pause before she nods sharply and tugs at where they touch. “Let’s go in then,” she says. “I don’t want to just stand here all night.”

Jon obeys and lets the light spill onto him as he enters the doorway. Inside the noise hits him like a physical being and only Georgie keeps him moving. They give their coats to the butler collecting them, Jon stammering a thank you to the wires and bolts though he knows they have no sentience or sapience of any sort. Georgie takes this moment to leave him and Jon stands desperately - horribly - out of his depth, alone in a sea of people, straddling the bright light of the coat room and the glimmering shine of the ballroom ahead.

Jon touches the edges of his mask to ensure it is still on tight, takes a deep breath, and plunges in.

It’s just as bad as expected and yet somehow better once he’s in the thick of things. The press of people on him is terrible, and the smell of sweat, perfume, and food comes to rest like a weight on the front of his skull. There’s a general background babble of noise and chatter and Jon finds it hard to see past gowns and suits and masks. And still, it is better here, because he can  _ feel _ the pull of the crowd, feel the stories, feel where he should be. He finds himself smiling without meaning to, a little pull of his lips that those around him always say means he’s about to bring  _ trouble. _

Jon doesn’t go  _ looking _ for trouble. Trouble just has a habit of finding him.

Anyway. He wades through the crowd, and it’s - something. He tries to make small talk! He does! He pictures Georgie’s face when he wants to scowl right away, or when he wants to brush them off because frankly Jon has something else he wants to be doing right now and it’s  _ not this _ , but. He tries! And the people get these weird looks on their faces like something is just to the left of what it should be, and they hurry off, and Jon should be relieved, but instead, he feels slightly off-kilter and confused. Like:

“Oh hello!” they might say, and Jon would say hello back, and there would be introductions. They would be confused when Jon said he was here with Georgie - Marquess Barker, with a  _ military bloke? _ \- but they would be too polite to question it outright, simply ask how they knew each other, and would coo at the story of childhood friends. And then Jon would ask how they heard about the ball, or what brought them here, if they knew Georgie, and they would answer with twisted expressions and slip away.

And now that he was thinking about it, there were some unfortunately richly dressed people beginning to look his way. That could be the trouble he kept being warned about. And if they were rich, they would  _ certainly _ know his old boss, and that would  _ certainly _ be trouble.

Jon found a nice, shadowy alcove and decided to be a lovely wallflower for however long the evening was going to last. If needed, the dancing promise could be a way to get himself out of trouble, though he did spare a thought of guilt for the future potentially-jilted dancing partner.

A pull in his gut and movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention and he watched one of the satin-folk drift in the direction of a tall, black-haired man in a deep red coat. The black-haired man saw the approaching stranger and Jon couldn’t quite interpret his stillness before the stranger grinned widely and Jon could identify at least that one - Duke Fairchild, in his signature dark purple clothing. His mask had thrown Jon off at first, but it was easy enough to identify the man now that Jon knew to look.

It was interesting, though, that Duke Fairchild would approach this person with such easy familiarity. Jon had never seen him at any meetings with Elias, and Jon had gone to a fair many. Could it be a mind game, one to throw the stranger and onlookers off, make the fellow feel important or throw spies onto a wild goose chase? But the man in red seemed calm enough, even seemed to recognize Duke Fairchild, and he held himself with a poise that a man of the landed gentry with no equal peerage probably -  _ probably - _ wouldn’t have been able to fake.

Jon frowned. That, there, was someone Jon didn’t know, and if this man was running in the same circles as Duke Fairchild, Jon couldn’t let himself keep not knowing.

Ugh. Was someone coming into his corner? Lord Almighty, was a man never allowed some peace?

He moved, glaring daggers at the person, and this time grabbed a drink. He wouldn’t look half so suspicious with a drink in his hand. Not that he was participating in any suspicious activity.

His eyes glanced back over and - was that  _ Duke Lukas now?  _ This time the man in red looked stiff, his back straight, and nothing about him seemed interested in continuing the conversation. In contrast, Duke Lukas’s smile seemed to be contentedly curled around his lips, almost a cheerful thing, and it almost made Jon laugh as this was a carbon copy of most conversations with Duke Lukas and Elias. Still - most people were Lukas victims. And if he wasn’t a Lukas victim, he was an Elias counterpart, and that sent a chill through Jon’s veins.

Yes. Jon was definitely going to talk with this man in red.


	2. You Have to Make the First One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i pressed backspace trying to delete all the spaces between paragraphs (i copy-paste over from google docs) and it deleted this whole chapter. i've also done hours of research into this time period. free me.
> 
> actually don't cause i DO want to write this. but this feels dangerously close to hubris.

How angry, how lonely, how resigned, was Martin supposed to feel before one of these things? It was like the five stages of grief each time he received an invitation -

_ We cordially invite you to - _

Surprise, shock. The humble Blackwoods, remembered in the minds of peerage, invited to dance and simper under the twinkling lights of ballrooms of homes in far greater debt than they would ever admit to. Martin grew up landed, grew up rich, something many of those nobles couldn’t claim, and it gave him legitimacy where his 9 month timeline greyed. Not that it mattered. Only child, cousins scattered, and he did well enough here. But it was the essence of the being remembered, wasn’t it? That Martin Blackwood, lord of anything, would be something to invite to a party.

And then the anger. Because they weren’t inviting Martin Blackwood, they were inviting Lord Blackwood. And how  _ stupid _ of him to forget, after  _ all these years, _ that he was anything beyond a piece on the chessboard, a figurehead to negotiate with, a little pawn of Lukas that got a snip in here and there, a little annoyance when -

Well. Martin got angry at himself. And he got angry at his mother for raising him the way she did. And Martin cried hot, angry, seething tears that made him swipe at curtains he put up again right after with a sigh before taking one of his two horses out for a ride, probably Violet because goodness knows the both of them needed a run.

They both came back tired. Martin was tired from cursing related to trying to control a young, rowdy thing that liked to try and toss its head about and chew leaves and basically push every button just because it could. Violet was tired because, well, the previously listed full agenda and also running while carrying a person. Martin handed off the reins to a stablehand who had miraculously appeared in the time he was gone; he mumbled a thank you, which wasn’t enough to stave off a conversation.

“She give you some trouble?” Maureen asked, an eyebrow raised to turn the question into a statement.

Martin eyed the girl balefully and brushed off some dust from his riding jacket. “Just thought she could get out of her stall for a while,” he sniffed.

“Right,” Maureen drawled. “Because we don’t exercise the horses daily here at all. Just keep ‘em all cooped up on your orders, sir.”

Martin let his stare turn into a glare, and Maureen dutifully let her own eyes drop to the ground. “Make sure Violet gets whatever she needs today, alright?” he sighed, and headed back off into the manor. He needed a bath.

* * *

Right. So that was yesterday, this is today, and Martin stands in front of a hallway mirror pretending to check his mask but actually - well, no, still checking his mask. But this time, it’s internal. He has a job to do. Go in, charm who he needs to charm - everyone, but to varying degrees, thankfully - and play the diplomat, play the spy, but not the information gatherer. Not this time. He’s here as a… hm. A body, perhaps? To show that he cares, and that he’s happy to engage.

That goal set, Martin nods, and steps into the ballroom to mingle.

For Martin, the hardest part of the night is the transition from person-group to person-group. Singling out the next talking partner without making the current one feel rejected had taken years of finesse, and even now Martin risked moments of drifting alone before finding his next conversation. That seemed to be less of a problem tonight, however, as there were a fair many couples happy to talk for a brief moment before passing on. It left Martin feeling oddly bamboozled - he was used to more subtle showing off than small-talk. Just what kind of party was this?

Once more he found himself alone in the sea, but his attention caught on another lone figure before he could worry about being found - a dark cloak, black hair, black cane, black and gold mask. He almost seemed to be prowling the edge of the ballroom, keen with a goal, though he would stop when asked; to Martin’s equal concern and amusement, this only seemed to leave those who interacted with him slightly flummoxed, and the other man himself confused as well. And then he just - disappeared.

“Lord Blackwood!”

Oh bloody  _ hell.  _ Martin sent a glare to the heavens, to hell, and then to the mysterious man for good measure. This is  _ just _ what he had been avoiding. He moved his glare into an expression that hopefully read ‘vaguely interested’ rather than ‘beleaguered and put-upon.’ “Duke Fairchild.”

Duke Simon Fairchild, dressed in his dark purples and blacks, pouted dramatically and clapped his hands together to press them under his chin. “Oh Lord Blackwood, surely you don’t mean that?”

Martin couldn’t press back his heavy sigh in time. “Mean what, Duke Fairchild?”

“That!” Duke Fairchild exclaimed, his eyes glinting, which always made Martin a certain shade of nervous. “That horrible, nasty tone you’re sporting! Why, are you not happy to see me! Terribly rude of you, that.”

Martin took a moment to think of nothing at all, blinked slowly, then managed what smile he could - and what a tiny, pathetic little thing it was. “It’s just simply terrible,” he sighed, “that all these people around me distracted from your brilliance, and for a moment, I couldn’t focus. With your appearance in front of me now, I wonder how I ever let that happen.”

Duke Fairchild hooted in delight, clapping Martin on the back unexpectedly. “That’s what I like to hear, my boy!” he cheered. “Always glad to hear you’re doing well! Keep up the good work!” And with a wink, the duke was off, probably to harass someone else. Martin suppressed a shudder at the thought. He could also use a drink.

“Martin.”

Martin’s back straightened immediately, painfully so, and he could feel every muscle in his body tense. Truly, Duke Lukas insisted on  _ every  _ disrespect, didn’t he? “Duke Lukas,” he greeted, rather calmly, even politely, he thought.

“It’s good to see you out and about, Martin,” Duke Lukas says magnanimously. “It’s not good to stay cooped up in that manor of yours.”

Martin bites down on his tongue, saying nothing of how Lukas would love that for Martin, how Lukas actually knows quite a lot about that personally, doesn’t he?, how Martin both fights  _ so hard  _ to be here and dreads it with every bone in his body. Because looking at those pale blue Lukas eyes -

Martin knows that both of them know every single one of those things.

“Right,” Martin says finally, and doesn’t speak again.

The silence drags.

“Well, I suppose I’ll be going then,” Duke Lukas says with a sigh, like he expected better of Martin. Was this a  _ burdensome _ conversation for him? Was this  _ hard? _ Oh, the difficulties of being a duke! The  _ hardships _ of pressuring his earl!

“Take care,” says Martin, and watches him go.

_ Yeah, _ Martin thinks,  _ I need a drink. _

He weaves his way to the side where banquet tables wait to be feasted upon, a large metal arm spinning with gears helping to rotate plates and drinks from servants to partygoers. Martin finds himself saying ‘thank you,’ and then startling at the warm voice behind him.

“You say it too?”

Martin looks, and there he is - the dark coat, the black and gold mask, the one who seemed to be looking for something. Martin can see why others may have run from him - his eyes seem to peer a little too close for comfort, like there’s something to see that you aren’t keen on sharing. Martin tries not to shiver, and looks back to choose a drink with far more care than it deserves. “Say what, too?” he asks absently, finally settling on something dark red.

“Thank you. To the robots.”

Martin takes a step out of the line - out of the way - and tilts his head at the stranger, inviting him to keep talking as he likes. He isn’t sure if it’s that invitation or the hanging question that brings the man closer. “I mean, yeah, I do.” He isn’t sure what else to say.

“Georgie thinks I’m silly for it.” He looks sheepish.

“Georgie?”

“Oh - my uh, my date, kind of she - invited me? Something something military bloke, really blasting them all away, getting me out of the house, something something, come on, Jon.” Jon talks with his hands, it seems, gesturing with his drink, shrugging, his other hand tightening and loosening on the cane in some secret message (perhaps trying to say ‘can you believe the audacity of trying to get me to meet people’).

There’s a lot to unpack there, and Martin can feel his face trying to do it for him before he contorts it back to a neutral smile. “Do you have a lot of robots where you come from?”

“No, no, just the one, two really, have one in the library -” His eyes suddenly settle on Martin again. “What’s your name?”

Martin frowns, though he tries to do it lightly, as one might do with a friend out of concern. In truth, he doesn’t know the last time someone hasn’t known who he is. It’s unusual that someone of Jon’s admittedly low standing would seek him out, and it has him on edge. “Lord Martin Blackwood, of Penningsley,” he says lightly, “and yourself?”

Jon hesitates, then sighs. “Major Jonathan Sims,” he says with a short bow. It’s difficult to do with both a drink and while favoring a leg, so Martin doesn’t begrudge him for his bow mainly being in the shoulders. “Please, call me Jon.”

“Why the sigh?” Martin asks despite himself. He doesn’t mention that he will, by no means, be calling him  _ Jon. _

“I wasn’t planning on making friends,” Major Sims explains dryly.

Martin’s eyebrows raise. “Giving your name approximates friendship? Why I’m honored, sir.”

Major Sims’s cheeks flush and his hands go back and forth in front of him, cane almost beaning Martin in the leg and Jon’s drink sloshing over. “No no, that’s - that is not what I meant. I mean - I meant only -” He pauses, sighs again, closes his eyes and reopens them much like a robot resetting. “Are you - do you often talk with Duke Lukas?”

Martin had found his shoulders relaxing, his fingers loose around his cup, and now he tenses again, his eyes sharp to meet the steady gaze of the black and gold mask before him. “Why do you ask?” he returns calmly.

“I meet with him frequently, and he’s never mentioned you,” Major Sims says, voice careful. “I was wondering if you were... family friends.”

“Something like that,” Martin replies with a thin smile he  _ knows _ does nothing to cover his dislike of the man and current topic. He can feel those searching eyes roaming his face, looking for cracks - and somehow it’s the pointless curiosity that makes it  _ worse _ . That this man truly means no harm, that he just wants to know because…  _ something, _ but nothing to do with Martin  _ himself _ , and it touches on his temper. “Look can we just, talk about something else?” he asks sharply.

“Oh, yes, of course,” Major Sims, says, having the grace to look guilty. “Have you, ah, been keeping up with the news?”

“What news in particular, Major Sims?” Martin asks politely, his mask - internal one - back on and secure. Major Sims seems to wince at the title, which is odd considering it's  _ manners _ , but perhaps he’s unused to it as he doesn’t come to parties often.

“The new crystals,” Major Sims says, his entire body animating in excitement before he contains himself again. “They can be infused with steam power! I was wondering what you thought of it.”

Martin isn’t sure what to say here, what answer is best. The field is wide open, and Sims’s hungry eyes drink him in. “Well,” he starts slowly, “it’s all very exciting. I look forward to seeing where it takes us. But none of the power seems practical right now, and that’s all I can afford to be concerned about at the moment.”

Major Sims seems to deflate before nodding in defeat. “I suppose,” he grumbles, “that makes a certain amount of sense. But the pure potential of them!” He looks about ready to go off on a tangent, a rant, perhaps, and oddly enough there is equal amount of amusement and dread in Martin’s body at the thought, but then Sims’s eyes widen and he disappears as he did once before, and a presence appears at Martin’s elbow.

“Lord Blackwood, may I have a moment?” asks Marquess Jonah Magnus.

Truly, this night is full of people Martin would rather not be dealing with. “Lord Magnus,” Martin replies evenly. “It is good to see you.”

“Yes,” Marquess Magnus says. An acknowledgement Martin spoke, paired with a thin smile. Green eyes peer out from a golden mask, and Martin does his best to stand tall. Major Sims’s eyes were piercing, searching - but Lord Magnus’s are made to flay a man to his bones. “I say, who was that handsome fellow you were just talking to?”

“A soldier, from the war,” Martin replies. He’s not sure why he hides Major Sims’s identity, except that revealing any information to Lord Magnus is sure to be a tactical error in a game Lukas made Martin a pawn in.

“Hm,” Marquess Magnus replies. “Odd that one would be invited to an event such as this. Unless he was a high ranking officer, of course.” His eyes gleam. There is an invitation there to share.

Martin’s not particularly interested.

“Perhaps more soldiers should be invited to  _ these sorts of events _ , as thanks for their part in defending our nation and defeating Napoleon,” Martin says with just a faintly raised eyebrow.

“But military folk are so  _ rowdy, _ ” Marquess Magnus says, waving his hand as if to dismiss Martin’s words from the very air. “It would hardly be a civilized event at all.”

Yes, because this event is so fun as is. Because the hunting of gossip and ripping of reputations for sport is considered  _ civilized. _ “Perhaps,” Martin says. He is proud of his neutral face and his only slightly tightened shoulders.

“But I digress,” Lord Magnus begins. “I come over to check on an old friend, and instead go on about people you would hardly know! Tell me Martin, how have you been?”

At least Lord Fairchild  _ means _ it when he checks on Martin, even if the man is insufferable for longer than five minutes at a time. “Well, thank you,” Martin responds as he should. “The estate is doing well, and Violet is coming along nicely. My horse,” he adds upon seeing polite confusion on Lord Magnus’s face.

“That is good to hear,” Lord Magnus effuses. “Why, I just had a horse tamed myself! Watching such beautiful creatures come to be meek and mild is truly one of my favorite activities.”

“Yes,” Martin agrees, because he can’t very well say  _ creep _ , nor can Martin disagree considering he has a fair number of tamed horses himself. “Ah, I’m sorry to cut this short, but I see Lady James by herself over there, and I simply cannot allow that to happen.”

Lord Magnus chuckles. “Ever the gentleman, Lord Blackwood. Very well. Enjoy your dance.” He turns and leaves, disappearing into the crowd.

“That was terrible,” he says outloud, before promptly shutting himself up with a drink. “Don’t say things like that out loud, Martin,” he scolds as he makes his way over to Lady James.

“I would say don’t talk out loud at all,” says a familiar, cheerful voice. Martin startles then levels a fake glare at Tim.

“Don’t scare me like that!”

Tim only shrugs and smiles. “Sorry, Martin. You make it too easy.”

Martin rolls his eyes. “I don’t suppose you and Lady James could bear my company for a while?”

Tim opens his mouth to respond but is cut-off by another, higher voice. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a million times, call me Sasha, Martin!”

Martin blushes. “I could never,” he murmurs.

“I could!” Tim declares. “Hello Sasha, my dear, how are you?”

“Hello, Tim,” Sasha replies with fond exasperation. “It was terrible without my husband. Those four long minutes stretched forever.”

“Never fear, my love! I will always return.” Tim bows over Sasha’s hand, kisses it, and then winks at Martin. “But I also needed to get our boy here, you understand.”

Martin’s blush deepens and he shakes his head. “I don’t know how you stand him, Lady Sasha.”

Sasha smiles at the two of them. “You learn to live with it.”

Tim pouts, and Sasha touches his hand gently. A look passes between them that makes Martin envy love, true love, before they turn back to him.

“I have the next dance open,” Sasha says meaningfully.

“Well, we can’t have that!” Martin responds gallantly. He holds out his arm, and can’t help but smile at her touch through his sleeve. “Shall we go?”

“Shall we,” Sasha decides. “Fare thee well, Tim. I hope you do not expire in my absence.”

“I will endeavor to wait, my love!” Tim cries out. “But I do see some friends over there, and I heard a rumor of cards.”

Sasha rolls her eyes. “Go off then, you scamp.” Tim grins and lopes off, leaving the two of them to brave the dance floor. Sasha raises an eyebrow. “Still want to dance?”

“Of course,” Martin replies. He could face almost anything with the two of them by his side. Even a whirling floor of faces and strangers. Even worse things.

They dance. Martin has a good time.


End file.
